I'll never sell one teardrop short
its own weight.
Oh how birdsongs were
drowning out eighteen wheelers
going down the main drag.
It's as if I can hear a blade of grass kneeling to mornings,
which take me back to words drawn with chalk rocks,
upon the unevenness
of our front walk.
Dandelions shout up through cracks.
Can I grow from baby steps
and leaps off the roof
when we'd laugh away
our falls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem